


Running Home

by screaming_internally



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Autistic Will Graham, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Lousiana, M/M, Sassy Will Graham, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will graham's past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28926213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screaming_internally/pseuds/screaming_internally
Summary: Will Grahams always been a private person to those who don't know him and even to those who do. His past is his and his alone and he doesn't like to share, so when he has to take time off of work for 'personal reasons' he's got the attention of the entire team and especially Hannibal.This is an exploration on Will's experience of how growing up was and his relationship with his family or lack there of which is only ever loosely examined in the show.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 42





	Running Home

Being back brought forth a barrage of memories and suddenly, as he stepped off into the airport, the thick and humid air hitting him at all sides made him feel like for once, he could breathe. He knew how it sounded. But the air felt like the first step of finally coming home. He still struggled with that. Whether it was the concept or the word itself, it always felt foreign coming out of his mouth, something he was never taught to fully understand as a child. But for once, for once in so long, he took a deep breath of that heavy Louisiana air, and let the memories come. The good, the bad, the ugly, he was welcoming them all back with open arms.

As he made his way through the airport he noted that not much had really changed since he bought his ticket out. Maybe the interior had a couple more shops and restaurants, a couple more floors to take up and down on the elevator, but the people? The people would always be the same. He didn’t know if he should find comfort in that thought or not. The bustle and hustle, families late for their flights pushing and pulling their children in the correct directions, throngs of frustrated people waiting for a delayed flight...defying every other extremely chaotic setting there was some form of calm to him. The ebb and flow of the airport and it’s patrons.

He took his time walking through, people watching like he always did no matter where he went. He got to where he needed to be in the end, and as he exited the building he waved down a taxi and heard the click of the trunk opening as he moved towards it. Heard the impatient rev of the taxi engine to signal that he was taking longer than what was appreciated to tuck his luggage safely away in the trunk.

He looked away from the taxi driver as he nodded his head in thanks and suddenly realized how hot it was. His jacket felt fused to his t-shirt and in turn, his t-shirt to his body. Without thinking much of it he pulled it off and tossed it to the side. He gave his directions, again not looking anywhere near the driver and handed over a stack of bills. He wasn’t quite sure how much it was but at this point all he wanted was to get to where he was headed, wasted money be damned. The driver seemed to get the memo and off they were.

For most in his life, it was hard to understand the pull of family and the obligations that came with them down in this part of the US. When asked by his colleagues after he had made it clear that he would be taking a considerable amount of time off work for ‘personal reasons’ most of them had said their condolences and asked if he needed anything. He was never a people person, probably never would be, so it just wasn’t in his heart to tell them that most of his family were either in the lush Louisiana ground or scattered to the wind like he is. Was. He was back now, he corrected himself.

He was rooted here, like it or not. Born and raised in Louisiana swamps and soil. When he was eighteen he felt just that. Rooted to the ground, unable to move, forced to brave through the hurricanes and dry spells. He remembered being so angry as a young man. But he chuckles to himself at that thought. Eighteen, he reminds himself, can be in no way considered a young man. And at that thought suddenly he was exhausted, as if all the energy had been sucked right out of him. How different he was now. More cynical, still angry, but less willing to take it out on the world around him. But now? Now he was tired. He had had a long flight and an even longer day, and with the muffled sound of the radio and the soft accented hum of the driver, he let the bumpy roads pull him under.

He woke to the gruff taxi driver pulling up on a dirt driveway to an old rickety house hidden mostly by the moss covered trees. He recalled somewhere in the back of his memory his father telling a younger him that they were called something. Cyprus rang a couple of bells in his mind but the fog of sleep fought off reaching too deep to try to remember the exact name.

The taxi driver slowed the car to a stop and asked “This the place?” Will nodded in acceptance and unbuckled his seat belt. He heard the truck click open once again and opened the door. Once he had grabbed his luggage and shut the trunk with a thunk that was absorbed by the thick trees and moss he tapped on the car twice and stepped back to watch it drive off, leaving a slight dust cloud behind it.

Once the taxi had disappeared around the bend of the dirt road he turned around and let it all soak in. The dense air of the swamp nearby, the sticky feeling the humidity left on your skin, the trees and the moss hanging from them gently swaying towards the east. And of course, the house. The peeling blue paint, more grey than anything because of the time that had passed. The first broken step that led to the porch, the rusted boat motors scattered across the front yard. How could something be so different, so old and decrepit, and yet still look the way you remember from childhood? he wondered to himself. At that thought a pang of longing pierced through him. But longing for what? His childhood? He knew realistically that he had almost no fond memories of his childhood or this place so that couldn’t be it. Maybe, maybe it was a longing for the childhood he never had, but he thought if that was the case wouldn’t anger or resentment come with those feelings? But like earlier, suddenly the energy was gone from his body, or maybe it was the feeling of being resigned, but either way it was exhausting. 

So with the weight of exhaustion in his chest he trudged up the broken steps and into the home.


End file.
